


Toccata

by ladygrange



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: Bit of angst but not too much, Dirty Talk, F/M, Oral Sex, lace making once more, that bearded face always, the tucking close of two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygrange/pseuds/ladygrange
Summary: Toccatas were typically written with virtuosos in mind––chances for keyboard players to exhibit their dexterity and technical skill. I wrote this w/ JP’s playing in mind, not b/c he was terribly concerned w/ the technical part of playing live but b/c there was this cluster of shows in 1971 where SIBLY started with a more delicate intro, and the solos had these sustained, crying notes. It’s achingly dissonant, whatever he does with the chords at times.The shows I have in mind are: Sept 9 in Hampton, Sept 14 in Berkeley, Sept 23 in Tokyo, Sept 29 in Osaka, Nov 25 in Leicester, and Dec 2 in Bournemouth.I’m sure there are more out there, and some tapers used to accidentally record over their tapes, rendering parts of shows unavailable. Oh to be a stealthy taper who never gets caught :’)Also, though this isn’t in the 71 category, I have so much love for the SIBLY on July 24, 1979 in Copenhagen, it blows me away every time; his phrasing and feel are so different from most renditions, from intro to end.There’s a lot of Leonard Cohen here. The end of the piece takes directly from “The Body of Loneliness.” Thank you to paintbox for introducing me to that poem <3And of course, toccata comes from toccare, meaning, "to touch.” Thank you for reading <3
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	Toccata

Jimmy plays with one foot on its toes, guitar on his thigh and bent backwards, too. A near unshakeable center of gravity keeps him steady through runs and chords. Not even the decibel levels of their sound system could topple his concentration.

She follows the wide band of his guitar strap, how it crosses in the billow of his untucked shirt; one of those Western style shirts that singing cowboys of the twenties and thirties wore in America. Her mouth twitches in a smile.

Jimmy must’ve worn something similar as a child. When Lonnie Donegan played skiffle on the radio and a Hofner President was the best guitar he could imagine owning–ear pressed to a tiny speaker to catch every drop and practice every note till he got it perfect. 

The yoke of his shirt is a reddish brown bordered by white piping. Blue and yellow and green curlicues decorate his chest and collar and cuffs. She had followed them with her fingers just yesterday, and many times before, has shed him of every stitch and popped every button free. Touched long. 

But this is the last night. For her, anyway.

Her shoulders tighten for a moment. Though he’d tried to get her to stay longer in Montreux - the festival wasn’t half done yet. She shifts her weight and leans further into a stack of equipment cases. 

Still, Jimmy has that lightest of touches, something pulled from his chest and into his fingers. Almost like it _hurts_ him to play. Like it _must_. The meditation turns to a kind of agony, heart and strings in one conversation. When the solo nears its end, when his neck goes loose, all dark beard and pale stretch and open mouth, she knows the set’s almost done. A mess of blues. A mess of hair stuck to his face. 

And suddenly, she wants to offer him something; she wants to call him cowboy and receive crinkles or to tease him about his invitation to work for the band. She remembers the night before, his body slung over hers, wet hair drying around his somber face.

_“The sun will wake me up tomorrow, and you won’t be there.”_

_“A phone call will wake you up,” she says, scratching gently in his beard. It almost always does, for every late sleeper. She does not recall the last time he woke naturally, without obligation or adrenaline. She traces the thin, dark line of beard under his nose. “It will not be like it was.”_

As if every little rupture from Milan could be seamlessly repaired, and the whole operation gone on like something similar could never happen. As if Peter hadn’t talked about tighter security with an ominous tone. The look on Jimmy’s face said it all. 

Jimmy doesn’t wear those same trousers as often. Doesn’t speak of the incident often or with ease, either. And she knows better than to pry him from the fear that riots will happen again. The crowds are dynamic, responsive, unwieldy, at times easily provoked––the States, Europe, England, almost everywhere. 

She claps, a bit stiffly, with the encore’s encore. Her belly dips and swoops at his expression when he sees her.

_Off_. Everything’s off - the last of her socks, his white trainers, even the lights. 

Jimmy’s hands sing along her, big and useful, full of things learned. Her hair is loose and pooling around her hips. Jimmy has pried two from her while she sits at the edge of the bed on a soft blue comforter, her face drawn into the shock of pleasure. 

How it can be like this each time, she doesn’t know, even having asked him before. 

She fumbles with the lamp to the side, a pull thank goodness, nothing to twist, no tiny knobs to grow frustrated with. 

His dark head nods between her thighs, ear peeking out in high flush, red tongue against her reddened flesh. His beard is woolen and dense on the delicate insides of her thighs and it will leave marks. 

Her head twists sharply to the side with another orgasm. 

Her curls are sopping against his beard, sex trembling and clutching in orgasm. Jimmy takes her pleasure with a moan in his throat. With his tongue lashing and three fingers curled strong inside. Only when he licks at the salty edges of her eyes does she manage to look at him.

“Emmaline,” soft and searing. 

She jolts to hear her name in that want-thick voice. The first words either of them have spoken since he went onstage. 

Jimmy cups her flushed cheeks, her legs limp and open. His eyes are molten and plump in the lower lids, lips very very red in his beard and shiny from between her legs.

“Lie down, my darling.”

With effort, she unlatches her fingers from his hair and swallows. He’s hard enough to wet her thigh when his erection brushes against her skin–leaky at the swollen tip, begging to be suckled. Want loops in her belly; she wants him in her mouth, his pulse against her tongue. His salty taste. She knows Jimmy won’t allow it right now, not with that look in his eyes. Not with his hands guiding her thighs high up his hips and the sure thrust that brings him to the tender little knot of her cervix. He wants to come buried inside her.

She whimpers helplessly. Jimmy moves, but only in a slow grind to catch her clitoris; a swollen bundle loved by his mouth. He goes still. 

She brushes his hair from one side of his face, only for his mouth to follow at her wrist with a kiss. 

“Why did you stop?”

Sweating like this, full of him and nearing another climax, she is out of breath and wanting to put her face in his neck. 

Jimmy takes each of her hands, deliberately slow in his movements, and stretches them above her head. The act presses him deeper, her further into the covers. Her legs vine tightly around him. And he kisses her, hot and slick and thorough until her cheeks tingle from his beard and she’s melted once more. 

She forgets the leaving. The pained looks he’d given her, that indelible urge to go to him always. In any way. In all ways.

Jimmy takes each of her mewls so urgently, with tight grinds of his hips like he can’t help himself, like he craves the responsive pull of her muscles. He breaks the kiss only to drop his head at her neck. She’s slow to comprehend his voice at first, with his tongue darting at her pulse point and his hips rocking slow. 

“Little sparrow.”

She releases a breathy laugh into his beard and turns her words towards his ear.

“Are you hungry?”

Jimmy bites her shoulder with neat white teeth that will leave a crescent in her skin. She nuzzles his pink ear in return.

“Don’t want you to yet,” he says, a gruff need under his voice.

And at first she thinks he means leaving, and her fingers twine with his. And then she knows what he means––he doesn’t want her coming just yet. She presses a kiss half in his cheek and half in his beard. 

“You’re about to,” she accuses.

Jimmy raises his head and shakes it slowly. His hands both hold and press. 

His gaze flits to her nipples. One by aching one, he sucks, uses the flat of his tongue to make her writhe, the edge of his teeth to deliver a sliver of pain, and his hairy cheek to make sure she knows why her skin is rashed and how her nipples got so hard they ache. Her mouth is open, neck arched. She’s going to come and he doesn’t want that yet. If he thrusts like that again, at that angle, she will.

“Jimmy - ” her voice breaks on the last syllable of his name. 

“Yes.”

Her eyes fill with pleading. 

“Emmaline.” He stretches her arms tighter. “Tell me.”

She’s nearly translucent. She’s not got proper control of her tongue or her words or how to fit want inside them. 

“You want my seed, Emmaline. You’ve gotten so wet for it, so wet.”

A thick cry bubbles from her throat. Jimmy grinds against her teased clit. 

“Tell me, my darling."

“I w-want - ” she whimpers. Jimmy kisses her nipple lovingly. She hides her cheek in her upper arm. “I want your seed dripping from me, Jimmy.”

A deep, satisfied groan, a twitch of his cock. “You want me to fill you up, don’t you?” 

Jimmy is trying to prove something, she knows that much. The crescent imprint of his teeth on the side of her neck knows it, too. 

“Yes,” she cries, voice tearful. “ _Please_.”

Jimmy finds that little pleasure spot just inside and worries it with the head of his cock. Her bottom lip wobbles. Every nerve gathers and collects around her pleasure. 

“Tell me.” Another of those inexorable thrusts that puts the head of his cock at her womb.

“I want y-you to fill me up,” she whispers. 

Even so, he’ll take her again in the morning, before departure. Before she’s fully awake and before she has time to take another shower. When her body is most tender and flows against his and he can make sure she bears a few more marks and her inner thighs are creamy with his semen. 

Jimmy lets out a shuddering breath of a moan. She reaches to kiss his chin, dark hair on her lips, rounded nose on her forehead, needing his touch badly. More than she’d thought possible. 

In the mouth of her heart she knows things which are not readily available, which spill from his hands. 

She knows that certain are primal and past understanding. Things about postponement, a gaze that clutches her and splits her open, the same of Milan. The same well of tenderness met.

The swollen head of his cock presses so _deep_. She pulses weakly around him. His teeth clamp down at the other bend of her neck, to hold her in place for his ejaculation. 

She knows dimly that he’s telling her to come for him, around his cock. _Emmaline_. 

Orgasm takes her with a choked cry––a delicious seize and the fullness of his cock stroking her trembling inner flesh. Her thighs hug his waist. Body to shivering body, embraced from within. The perfect consonance of all that want. 

She draws a breath, and he’s there with her, sheltering her in the fleece of his hair, whispering against her ear,

“Yes, my love, that’s right, that’s right.”

**Author's Note:**

> Toccatas were typically written with virtuosos in mind––chances for keyboard players to exhibit their dexterity and technical skill. I wrote this w/ JP’s playing in mind, not b/c he was terribly concerned w/ the technical part of playing live but b/c there was this cluster of shows in 1971 where SIBLY started with a more delicate intro, and the solos had these sustained, crying notes. It’s achingly dissonant, whatever he does with the chords at times.
> 
> The shows I have in mind are: Sept 9 in Hampton, Sept 14 in Berkeley, Sept 23 in Tokyo, Sept 29 in Osaka, Nov 25 in Leicester, and Dec 2 in Bournemouth. 
> 
> I’m sure there are more out there, and some tapers used to accidentally record over their tapes, rendering parts of shows unavailable. Oh to be a stealthy taper who never gets caught :’) 
> 
> Also, though this isn’t in the 71 category, I have so much love for the SIBLY on July 24, 1979 in Copenhagen, it blows me away every time; his phrasing and feel are so different from most renditions, from intro to end. 
> 
> There’s a lot of Leonard Cohen here. The end of the piece takes directly from “The Body of Loneliness.” Thank you to paintbox for introducing me to that poem <3
> 
> And of course, toccata comes from toccare, meaning, "to touch.” Thank you for reading <3


End file.
